Limpick stayed on Dragonstone for nearly a month. Every morning he read, every afternoon he practiced writing, every evening he recited scripture from memory. He could now rattle off the first five chapters of The Book of R'hllor without a single stumble. He had read Dragon and Fire three times cover to cover and could stumble his way through The Song of Prophecy. Melisandre came every day—sometimes early, sometimes late. She taught him High Valyrian grammar, the rituals of the Lord of Light, and how to read omens in the flames.
He learned fast. Faster than he had expected. The letters and words felt like they had always been waiting inside his head, only needing someone to wake them. Melisandre said he had a gift. She said R'hllor had chosen him. She said he had been born to serve the Lord of Light. Limpick said nothing; he simply lowered his head and looked humble. He knew why he learned so quickly—not because of R'hllor, but because of Ember and Plume. Everything he studied was useful. Every book, every word, every verse was one more step closer to Melisandre, and every step brought him one more piece of dragonglass.
He already had six pieces.
Melisandre had given him three, the plump woman from the red temple in King's Landing had given him one, and Marwyn had given him two. Six pieces of dragonglass—enough for nearly six percent evolution progress. He kept them sewn into a small inner pocket of his robe, pressed against his chest beside the dragon bone. Every night before sleep he took them out, one by one, and ran his fingers over them—cool, smooth, heavy. He closed his eyes and pictured Ember and Plume after they absorbed the stones. Would Ember grow bigger? Would he finally fly? Would his flames burn hotter? Would Plume's scales cover her whole body? What color would her eyes become?
He put the stones away, rolled over, and slept.
That evening Limpick was in the library reading the seventh chapter of The Song of Prophecy. It told of Azor Ahai—the hero of the Lord of Light's prophecies—who would be reborn when the Long Night came, wielding a burning sword and leading mankind against the darkness. He had just reached the part where Azor Ahai would wake the stone dragon when Melisandre entered.
She wore a different red robe today—deeper red, cut lower at the neck, with golden thread winding from shoulder to waist that flashed in the firelight. Her copper-red hair hung loose, waves spilling over her shoulders and making her milk-white skin look even paler.
Limpick glanced up, then bent his head and kept reading aloud. "The Long Night shall come, darkness shall fall. The dead shall walk, the cold shall devour. Azor Ahai shall be reborn from smoke and salt, and he shall wake the dragon from stone…"
"Stop a moment," Melisandre said. She sat across from him and folded her hands on the table. Several rings—ruby, gold, copper—glittered on her fingers in the firelight. "I have something to tell you."
Limpick set the book down and looked at her. Her eyes were different today. Usually they studied him like a teacher weighing a student—measuring, judging, calculating. Today they were soft, warm, the red pupils melting like the flames in the brazier, bright and dark by turns.
"How long have you been on Dragonstone?" she asked.
"Almost a month."
"A month," she repeated. "A month ago you were an illiterate pauper who walked from Harrenhal to King's Landing and sailed here on nothing but faith. Now you can read The Book of R'hllor, write High Valyrian, and see signs in the flames. Do you know what that means?"
Limpick shook his head.
"It means R'hllor has chosen you." Her voice dropped, intimate, as though sharing a secret. "I have served the Lord of Light for forty years—no, longer. I have seen many come before the holy fire—praying, weeping, swearing oaths, making sacrifices. Some were devout, some afraid, some greedy, some desperate. But they all came needing something. Food, shelter, power, answers. You are the first who did not come for himself."
Limpick blinked. "What do you mean?"
"You did not come to Dragonstone asking for anything. You never begged me for food, for coin, for power. You simply came. You knelt before the holy fire, read, wrote, recited, prayed. You ask for no reward—only… love." When she said the word love, her voice trembled slightly, as if the word itself had brushed against something fragile inside her.
Limpick looked at her and did not know what to say. Of course he had come for something—dragonglass, strength, evolution for Ember and Plume. But he could not tell her that. He lowered his head and put on the face of a man who had been seen through. "I don't know how to explain it. It's just… back in Harrenhal, the first time I saw that glow—the light inside the stones, inside the dragon bone—I felt it wasn't ordinary. It was alive. It had been burning for hundreds of years with no one to tend it, no one to care, but it kept burning. I felt… I felt I should do something."
Melisandre's fingers tapped the table once, twice, three times. Then she stood, walked around the table, and stopped in front of him. Her red robe whispered across the stone like scales. She knelt so they were eye to eye—her red gaze looking up at him from below, firelight dancing in her pupils.
"Do you know," she said, "I have lived a very long time. Longer than you can imagine. I have seen the high priests of Volantis immolate themselves before the holy fire. I have seen the Iron Bank of Braavos use flame to divine who should receive loans. I have seen warlocks of Qarth glimpse fragments of the future in the flames. I have seen many devout men, many fanatics, many who gave everything to the Lord of Light. But I have never seen—" She paused, reached out, and let her fingertips brush his cheek. "I have never seen anyone love the way you do. Quietly. Silently. Without show. You do not speak, you do not shout, you do not weep, you do not demand. You simply are there. Sitting before the fire, reading, writing, reciting. Day after day, without pause."
Her fingertips were hot—hotter than any ordinary person's, the same steady warmth as Ember's scales. The heat sank into his cheek like a small coal pressed to skin—painless, yet enough to make his pulse race. Limpick sat perfectly still. His heart beat faster, but not because of her words. He was afraid. Not of Melisandre herself, but because he could not read her. How long had she lived? Decades? A century? How much had she seen? Had she already seen through him? Did she know he had not come for pilgrimage but for dragonglass? Did she know two dragons waited for him in the woods north of King's Landing? Did she know every ounce of his "piety" was an act?
Sweat slid down his back, but his face showed nothing.
"You remind me of someone," Melisandre said, "from long ago. When I was still young—or rather, before I became what I am now. That person sat before the fire the same way—quiet, without asking for anything, simply there. I did not understand then. I thought faith meant flame, sacrifice, burning yourself up. Only later did I learn that faith can also be a charcoal fire—never blazing, never fierce, but always burning. Burning forever."
She drew her fingers back from his cheek but did not stand. She remained kneeling before him, looking up, copper-red hair spilling across the stone like living flame.
"Limpick," she said, her voice so low it seemed to rise from the depths of her throat, "you make me feel that everything I have done in service to the Lord of Light was not in vain. That there truly are people in this world who understand what fire is, what light is, what—"
She stopped, the words dying on her lips.
Limpick sat motionless, the weight of her red gaze pressing on him like the dragonglass against his chest. Outside, the sea crashed against the black cliffs. Inside, the brazier crackled and the quill lay forgotten on the open page. He could feel the six stones and the dragon bone warm against his heart, and somewhere far to the north, beyond King's Landing, two dragons waited in the woods.
He would return to them soon.
But first he would let Melisandre believe—completely—that he was exactly what she thought he was.
A true servant of the Lord of Light.